


Amnesia

by katyazimazama



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Haven't written in a while so I'm a bit rusty, Liverpool F.C., Liverpool fc - Freeform, M/M, more characters to come! - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyazimazama/pseuds/katyazimazama
Summary: A career threatening injury leaves Andy in hospital.
Relationships: Trent Alexander-Arnold/Andrew Robertson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

Something’s beeping. It’s a steady, high pitched beep. Repetitive. Annoying. He has no idea how long it’s been going on for.

He’s faintly aware of something on his finger. His hand won’t do what it’s told when he tries to move it, though. He can’t seem to get his eyes to open, either.

There’s a sour taste in his mouth and his tongue moves around it, hesitantly.

****

_Amnesia._

_Brain damage._

There’s a lot of other words being spoken right now. They hang in the air, out of reach. Those are the only words he manages to grab onto.

Someone’s sat to his left, holding his hand. The pressure she’s applying to it seems to increase with every beep of the monitor next to him.

He doesn’t know who she is, but he can’t find the words to say that right now.

****

“Can you tell me what your name is?” Someone else asks him, a little later. There’s a clipboard in their hand, a blue pen poised above it in the other.

That’s a simple question, should be easy to answer.

He wills his mouth to move, and, for the first time since he woke up, it does. His lips part, and there’s a gasp from the other side of the room in anticipation. He sucks air in, readying himself to speak.

“Uh…” He croaks, and then tails off.

He knows the answer, but he can’t find it. He’s not entirely confident that even if he did find it, his mouth would cooperate to let it out.

What an anti-climax.

****

_There’s plenty of things to be positive about. He’s awake, for starters._ He hears later, through a fog of sleep that isn’t quite sleep.

 _He doesn’t know who I am._ Someone whispers, back. It’s followed by a sob. _Does he even know who he is?_

No, he doesn’t.

****

There was an accident, they explain. A heat of the moment, career threatening tackle. A blow to the head, studs to his temple. Blood on the pitch, an ambulance once they realised the severity of his injury. One stretcher, two paramedics, and weeks of lying comatose in an intensive care unit.

He’s a footballer. A pretty good one at that. He has a wife, two kids. A mum, a dad, a brother. A dog. The dog’s not allowed to visit the ward.

They live in Liverpool, but he grew up in Scotland. He has the same friends he grew up with. They show him pictures of them, and tell him that they’re dying to come visit but they don’t want to overwhelm him.

Same goes for his teammates, apparently. Over 20 of them. And he doesn’t remember a single one.

He doesn’t remember any of this. Can’t see the connection between what they’re telling him, and the person he knows to be himself in this moment. The person that he can’t even see in a mirror, the person that he’s having to piece together between the hands that lay uselessly by his side, and the legs that are covered by blankets apart from at bath time.

****

A week - maybe it’s a week, maybe it’s just a matter of days - passes before he’s allowed new visitors.

Nothing much has changed in his small room. He still hasn’t spoken more than a few moans, here and there. His vocabulary seems to be kept behind a locked door, and he still can’t find the key. At the moment they’re communicating with blinks. _One blink yes, two blinks no._

He can move two fingers on his left hand, and three on his right. Apparently that’s progress.

His first visitor could be anyone. Literally, anyone. So he refrains from any moans, keeps his obedient fingers still, until the man introduces himself.

_James, a teammate at Liverpool._

James, his teammate at Liverpool, has a strong accent that doesn’t match any of the hospital staff, doesn’t match his wife’s either. It takes all of his concentration just to decipher what this man is saying.

It’s a pretty one sided conversation with James, his teammate at Liverpool. The other man catches on fairly quickly that 20 questions isn’t going to work here, and switches to anecdotes. He’s even brought pictures along with him.

There’s a picture of the two of them - allegedly the smaller one is himself, but he can’t verify that at the moment - holding a trophy. It looks like he’s caught the sun. There’s a picture of the apparently-himself sitting in a blow up unicorn. A picture of sunburn on his forehead. A picture of him and another man, one he hasn’t seen before.

“Trent.” James, his teammate at Liverpool says. “This is Trent. You two have an assist competition.” The other man’s lips turn up in a smirk. “He won last season, and he was winning this season as well.”

An assist. _Assisting what?_

****

He goes through this same routine with a litany of men over the next few days. Old school friends, teammates, cousins. A tall German man who’s laugh could probably have resurrected him from his coma months earlier. He wouldn’t be surprised if a postman pops in soon. Everyone seems eager to be the one; the one to jog his memory, make everything click into place. He supposes he should want that just as much as them. Should be jumping (metaphorically) at the chance to learn more about himself.

But as soon as they leave his room, telling him they’ll visit again but never specifying a date or time (not that he has a reference point at the moment), their stories just become…stories.

****

Eventually his mum and dad visit. There’s deep frown lines set into both of their faces, and he wonders if they’ve always looked this tired.

  
 _Couldn’t bear it._ His mum says, as she grips his hand tightly. _We’re so sorry, we should’ve come sooner._

He doesn’t remember her. Doesn’t remember the man perched at the end of his bed, either. His dad’s fingers scratch at the hospital bedding.

There are hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he can’t wipe them away. Can’t say anything to comfort his mum, either, as she dabs at her eyes with her free hand, tissue coming away stained with mascara.

It takes more effort than he remembers putting into anything, but he manages to twitch his hand. Hopefully, his mum will realise that he’s trying to squeeze back.

That visit is followed by his brother, and between the two of them he is emotionally exhausted. For the first time he’s seeing - _really seeing_ \- the impact of his injury on other people. The woman - his wife - who hovers around his bedside so much does a pretty good job of remaining upbeat and jovial, talking at him rather than to him (that way you don’t need a response). Occasionally there are cracks in her facade, but it’s nothing like this.

****

Success.

He can now move his head side to side.

This is apparently something to celebrate, as there’s a big smile on his wife’s face. Rachel, he should call her. She’s on the phone to everyone, telling them this.

_A great sign._

_They’re hopeful he’ll start speaking soon._

_Next week we might bring the kids in._

Kids. Kids. He has kids. He wonders how this will work, given that he still feels like a child himself. Everyday he’s spoon-fed soft hospital food (he still can’t eat solids very well). Everyday a healthcare assistant wipes him down with a hot flannel, a bed bath it’s called. Everyday a bedchamber is slid under his bottom, ready for him to do his business.

He’s not ready for kids. Maybe he was at some point in his life. But this Andy, the one that has a grand total of 5 fingers and a neck under his control, is not.

****

He’s wet himself. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but every time is getting a little harder to deal with. Fortunately, he’s alone in the room when it happens. Unfortunately, this means playing a waiting game, waiting for someone to come into his room and realise what he’s done.

But patience is a bit hard when your legs are wet from your own piss.

There’s a knock on the door a little while later, and a wave of relief washes over him. He got his hopes up too soon, though, as the man that walks through the door isn’t wearing hospital scrubs. Instead, he’s clad in work out gear. The same Liverbird logo emblazoned on his top as so many others that have come in here to speak to him.

_Great, another teammate._

This one is even more hesitant than the rest. He hovers at the door he’s just opened, a hand still on the handle.

“Can I come in?” He says. He has the same accent as the hospital staff. What feels like minutes pass by in silence. It dawns on him, eventually. “Shit, right, you can’t speak yet.”

The young man uses that to leave his safety place by the door, and joins him at the side of his bed. His trainers squeak against the hospital floor.

“Milly said you do blinks?” He moves his neck to the side (it does feel good to do this), and flutters his eyelids at the other man in response. He doesn’t remember speaking to a Milly. “Two blinks yes, one blink no, right?”

_Good enough._

He blinks twice.

“My name’s Trent.” Trent says. This is assist competition Trent. Trent clasps his hands together, and resting his elbows on his legs he brings them up to his face. Almost in prayer. “I…I don’t really know how to start this.”

Trent looks around the room, at anything but his hospital bed, really.

“You’re the big talker out of the two of us.”

There’s a big pause. A silence filled only by the monitor beside him. He follows Trent’s gaze, his eyes coming to rest on his lap. There’s a dark patch visible on the blanket.

“Do you need me to get someone?” Trent asks, as if he’s embarrassed to say anything about it.

_Two blinks._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything's still pretty awful isn't it!!! sorry for the long wait

_Andy Robertson. 25. From Scotland, lives in Liverpool. Football player. Father, son (and the holy spirit)._

Is the mantra he goes through every time he wakes up. Hopefully it will start to stick soon.

*****

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here for (and he’s not sure he’d trust himself even if he did know).

Sometimes when he wakes up it’s windy outside. Branches from a tree rattle against his hospital window, almost threatening to come in. Sometimes the rain decides to join in. Heavy rain, gentle rain. In-between rain. All kinds of rain. On the rare occasion, the rain sounds as if it’s going to shatter the window, send shards of glass across the room. _It’s even hailing now,_ someone will invariably say when that happens.

Sometimes it’s even sunny when he wakes up. He’s not a big fan of those days; he can’t tilt his neck enough to avoid the sun in his eyes, and the light has a habit of landing on the same patch of his bed, heating up his legs under the bedsheets. When that happens, he wiggles his legs, just a little bit. Enough to get some air under the bedsheets.

He can move his legs now. Just a little bit.

Fortunately, it’s not sunny very often. And that feels familiar, comforting.

“Hot?” His mum asks him, as he exercises his new-found powers to wiggle his legs.

_Two blinks._

She gently lifts the covers at the corner, folding it down so his legs can breathe. Two skinny, pale legs stare back at him, and he has a faint feeling that they didn’t always look like this. His mum can’t seem to look at them as she plops herself down on the chair next to his bed, keeping her eyes level with his.

There’s a gold ring on her finger, and she twists it around and around.

“Your legs are a good sign.”

_Two blinks._

“The club wants to give an update on your condition. They’re really hopeful about things - as we all are.”

_Two blinks._ Just to show he’s still listening, this time.

“And they want to share it with the fans. Everyone really wants to know how you are, you see?”

_You see?_ Is a loaded question. _Everyone_ is a loaded concept. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that there are people out there that he doesn’t know, that don’t really know him, that will never come into this little hospital room that he now calls his home but apparently love and care about him.

And not just people. Millions of them.

Mind blowing.

He’s been shown pictures of them. Thousands of people waving flags around, scarves flying over their heads. The pictures are all littered with red, the same red that his teammates often wear when they come to visit him. They make him feel something, a tingle in his legs, a flutter in his stomach. He can’t name that feeling yet, though.

“But, of course, it’s up to you.” His mum’s gentle voice brings his focus back. She rubs his shoulder.

_Right_. He wants to say. The most he manages, however, is a small grunt.

Thousands of people knowing that he can’t walk, or talk, or do anything much that requires more than his eyelashes moving up and down.

_I’ll think about it._ He desperately wants to say. But they haven’t managed to translate that into blinks, yet.

*******

They discovered his abilities not during a physio session, but completely by accident. The physio will claim credit for it, patting his legs every time he comes into the room, but he has someone else to thank; his son.

It felt surreal - not that anything at the moment feels real - watching that little boy waddle into the room. This was something he’d made, something he had an overwhelming responsibility for. He’d been building up the moment before it happened; finally _this_ was going to be the moment where everything clicked into place. The moment he became Andy Robertson again; father, son and alleged footballer.

But when the time came, when those little legs waddled into the room, when his pudgy, sausage fingers reached towards him for a cuddle, _nothing._

And he couldn’t hug him back, couldn’t do anything. This little thing didn’t even understand his new language, his furious blinking (maybe this was to keep the tears at bay) went in vain. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice. Plucking at the hairs on his head - his fringe now long enough that it sometimes dangled in front of his eyes, gently squeezing his nose.

“He’s missed you.” Rachel said. “It’s hard not being able to tell them where you are, when you’ll be back.”

There was a pause. In the silence his son got bored of playing with his face, and stretched his pudgy little hands out towards Rachel. She reached out to pick him up, only to plop him down at the end of the bed.

“I’ve missed you.” She said, a sad smile on her face. She’d been here almost everyday. She cleared her throat. “Still miss you.”

He wished he could say something in response, but even if he could get the words out he wouldn’t know what to say. There was a tight feeling in his chest, but a heavier, distracting pain in his legs. He looked down to see his son sat on them, and, unable to tell him to get off, managed to wiggle his legs.

*******

A few nights ago, he thinks, he started having dreams. Up until then his sleep had been uninterrupted, pitch black, nothingness. He can’t ask anyone if this is a good sign or a bad sign, but he’s been waking up in fits and starts, a cold sweat sometimes trickling down his forehead, a slightly quickened heart rate monitor next to him (he’s had a lot of time to listen to the monitor beside him).

They’re never good dreams, but never bad enough to be called nightmares. They never make much sense, but then, he supposes, few dreams do make sense.

He sees red confetti raining down from the sky, champagne flying into his face. His teammates’ eyes staring at him, but they’re all underwater. Bright green grass below his feet as he runs, a ball just out of reach. Heads in hands, high fives in the air.

He sees boats and bottles of beer, little jars of baby food and piles and piles of nappies. National anthems, meat grilling on barbecues, baths full of ice. Snippets of a life he used to lead.

*****

Trent’s finger scrolls down the screen rapidly. It moves so well, and so easily. He might just bejealous of a finger.

Comments fly by on the phone, and he squints trying to get a better look at them. _Slow down, you idiot,_ he wants to say. He has an urge to grab the phone from the other boy.

“Look at all these comments.” Trent says. Andy lingers on the ‘ckkkkkkk’ sound that Trent often makes with his ‘c’s.

_I can’t, you idiot._

_Two blinks_.

“Everyone was really worried about you.” He says, pulling the phone away from Andy and relaxing back into the chair. “Who would’ve thought, eh?” There’s a cheeky grin on his face. And, for the first time he can remember, Andy wants to smile back.

He’s aware of 6 visits that Trent’s made to him. There could be more; medication and his physio sessions often have him so tired he’s not sure if he’s dreaming or not. But the one’s he remembers have gradually gotten less awkward since their first meeting, and this is definitely the most comfortable he’s seen the other man.

“So… your mum says you can move your legs.” Trent’s gaze flits down to wear his legs are, covered by the hospital bed sheets.

_Ah, he thinks I’m getting better._

_Two blinks._

“Go on then, show us.” Trent crosses his arms over his chest. His black hoodie bunches up as he leans back into chair. There’s a playful glint in his eyes. Andy thinks he remembers this face.

The bed sheets rustle gently as he wiggles his toes.

Trent bites his top lip.

“Luis Suarez better watch out!” He says, after a pause. Andy doesn’t get the reference.

_Two blinks._

There’s another pause. A longer one this time, with only the ticking clock above them to keep it company. Andy wiggles his legs again, just to hear something else.

And then Trent snorts. His face creases up, and he laughs. It’s loud and childish, and he tries to cover it with his hand. His broad shoulders shake with laughter.

He thinks he’s heard that laugh in a dream.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He says, voice muffled by the hands that cover his mouth. Another giggle escapes through the gaps in his fingers. “It’s just…we won a champions league with those legs…”

A champions league is not something he remembers. But he knows it’s a big deal. He looks down at his legs again, and feels the corner of his mouth start to turn up.

He’s smiling, just about.

He can smile now.

*****

The door to his room flies open one day, almost denting the wall it ricochets off. His brother stands in the doorway, a big duffle bag hanging from his shoulder.

The duffle bag is wriggling.

“I doubt we’ve got long, so pardon my abruptness.” He says, as he swings the door shut behind him with a bang. Andy winces at the loud noise, and his brother scrunches up his face. “I probably shouldn’t be doing this, given that we’re in a hospital and these aren’t the most hygienic of beings.” His brother is talking at a mile a minute, not with the usual slow, measured way that people usually use to try and talk to him. _Is this how people always talk?_

There’s a gentle _thud_ when he places the bag on the floor, followed by a _zzzzppp_ as he unzips the top of it.

As soon as the bag is opened, Andy understands his brother’s haste.

He’s brought a dog into a hospital, and it wriggles furiously in his brother’s arms as he picks it up, panting and whining.

“She’s excited to see you!” His brother exclaims, a big grin on his face that matches the dog’s expression. “This, this is your dog Poppy!”

Poppy is little. Poppy is furry.

He doesn’t recognise Poppy, but Poppy definitely recognises him. She keeps up her wriggling as his brother makes his way over to him, sitting down on the chair by his side and keeping her held tightly on his lap.

“I’m gonna wait until she’s calmed down to put her on your lap. What with the tubes and everything.” He says, nodding to the IV tube currently attached to his hand. “Do you remember her?”

_One blink._

“Ah, I’ve heard forgetting things is a symptom of amnesia.” His brother says, dryly. “Well, Andy meet Poppy. Poppy meet Andy, etc.” A little paw is held out by his brother, and Andy offers two blinks in place of a handshake.

“She’s about 8 years old. You got her from a rescue when you moved to Liverpool. She’s a Cocker Spaniel.”

_Two blinks_.

“I would say she’s a fun loving girl, likes long walks on the beach and a cocktail at the weekend. Pornstar Martinis - your favourite too, I believe. Although that’s definitely one you keep quiet about with the lads.”

Andy doesn’t know what a Pornstar Martini is.

The dog’s - _his dog’s -_ mouth is stretched open in what looks like a wide grin, but he remembers reading something about how dogs don’t smile. Strange, the things he can remember. His brother continues rambling on about his dog’s fake personality, and Andy zones out slightly, staring into his dog’s big eyes. He feels really bad for not remembering her.

At some point his brother says: “Ready?”

_Two blinks._


End file.
